


Pretty Mouth and Green His Eyes

by Cirrocumulus



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Action, Angst, Ash Lynx Lives, Death Wish, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon Fix-It, Side Story: Garden of Light, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-04 14:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17305913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirrocumulus/pseuds/Cirrocumulus
Summary: Silly beast, thought Death. Leopards do not possess wings. They grow teeth instead of feathers, can roar but never sing. And yet this one made no sound, but ate lyrics. That way its stomach would be full for the last time, filled with words that it could speak in that endless space of never-being, where the once-existing souls went.Death, frankly, did not want it there.~*~After even Death refuses to take Ash Lynx, Blanca steals him away under a new identity, while everyone is sure the great leopard has perished. Coming to terms with his own survival, Ash faces an enemy greater than all those that came before - his own psyche.(Post Manga Canon Fix-It, yet Garden of Light still happens.)





	1. The Old Man and The Sea

**Chapter 1 – The Old Man and The Sea**

 

Time stood still when the leopard fell. Stuck somewhere between the enigma of an _end_ that pushed endlessly towards the absurdity of its meaning. As if one could claim Death and recount the way it was written without the need to bow. Because perhaps, maybe through defiance, Death forgets to laugh when one explains the meaning of a _certain_ word while screaming over, far away, too far to follow. Maybe Death gazes with awe at the shattered fragments of a being trying to rival the Devil. Or, and this was the least likely of all, Death would drape a hug over the carcass like a caressing lover and weep, because even beasts bleed.

And this one had drawn red flowers in the place meant for only dead plants. Was still letting more of them bloom, an art piece of the gruesome kind, rooted in little more than an urgency to fly. Silly beast, thought Death. Leopards do not possess wings. They grow teeth instead of feathers, can roar but never sing. And yet this one made no sound, but ate lyrics. That way its stomach would be full for the last time, filled with words that it could speak in that endless space of never-being, where the once-existing souls went.

Death, frankly, did not want it there. Could care less about the corpse that would crumble like cinder. For it had outrun the harbinger of the end for so long that the hunt felt stale, now that the leopard forgot the chase. It had not given up, it had waited to be caught. After licking countless wounds dry that dared to leave it bloodless, the beast had gone tame. Waited on Death to greet it like an old friend, for they had met many times before, always fleeting. They were akin to equals, Death had dared to think. For just a short while, it had found a formidable foe that would not be taken hostage. Not by snow and certainly not by sins. Perhaps the beast had bargained all its karma, both good and bad, away for a chance to look upon Death's haunting frame. Then etched every bone with jade green poison to let the whole world know that Ash Lynx would never perish.

But he had. Stood before the cowl of darkness, bearing the bruises of self hatred and otherly love. And pleaded, with no words, to spare another if only his cracked soul was enough for the daring trade. And Death laughed, for there had been many before the leopard - cranes and crows, friends and foes - who had but offered the same deal. The end was the end however, and Death had refused them all, for it only hunted without names.

“A pretty mouth for a beast so foul", it howled. "Yet _love_ I do not yearn for.”

And the leopard froze, still in place, as though dead on a mountain.

“It is the _hatred_ that brings me game.”

Then Death licked its lips, sealing an envelope with words that the beast could not open.

“And our hunt is far from over.”

 

_~*~_

  
New York's public library roared with life. The once quiet halls where even breaths sounded like screams were now full of the hustle and bustle of erratic souls and even more erratic heartbeats. People, once trapped between pages, now desperately tried to break out of the place or into the crowd that steadily grew like a foul grapevine around a desk. There, where no Garden of Eden could shine, stood the sinners of the silent kind. The onwatchers, hawks of the overground, so desperate to take a look at the forbidden fruit.

Blanca dragged his fingers across the borrowed book he'd came to return. An old copy, yellowing on the sides like grandfather paper was ought to do. It made him feel less restless somehow, even while the librarian behind the counter was drumming her fingers as though it could outlive the muffled cries of the crowd that were brought to his ears from rooms away.

“Hemingway's The Old Man and The Sea. Brought back as fresh as a first edition could hope to be.” He laid the book down, fingernails scratching at the edges to keep his temper. “Maybe a quote might calm you?”

The young woman huffed. “What does Hemingway know about a double murder?”

“A great deal. About death, anyhow", replied Blanca. “The corpse outside was transported quite a while ago. What does that say about the crowd in here?”

Taking the book out of his grasp and clutching it to her shivering form, the lady pointed towards a cop dragging a passerby away. Some low gang member, probably, given the heightened anger and low threshold for violence. If one considered the sweat that stained the cops cheeks it seemed as though the problems further down the library were out of his league. They would shut the crime scene down soon no doubt, though such a public place made people behave like rabid animals. Unherded sheep like that would grow fangs and pounce on any opportunity.

“If I am right this second victim is not quite dead just yet. If they aren’t, an ambulance should turn up soon. New York is quite fussy about its public places. It thrives off blinding the world with light, does it not?” The librarian stayed silent, rubbing her arms absentmindedly. Casting another glance at the book, Blanca offered a quote in peace.

_“It's silly not to hope. It’s a sin, he thought.”_

“...yeah", muttered the woman. “Perhaps you are right. One death is quite enough.”

“Then we are on the same page.” A forced grin. “The bookmark. It is the same scene. Read it, it sure is worth a look.”

“Uh”, she nodded solemnly “alright. Thank you- sir?”

Not waiting for her to finish, Blanca shoved his hands into his jacket’s pockets and began to trot towards the frightened sheep of the library like an old sheepdog. And maybe he was, clutching his height like a crutch to navigate through the herd with an air of authority. The scent of blood permeated the air like a hunt gone wrong and for a moment he wondered when the scavengers would come, armed with cameras.

For now it was only a single cop that attempted to clear a path towards the entrance of the room. A God given opportunity for Blanca to sneak close in plain sight. So he weaved a web of soft nudges here and there, caught whispers along the way.

Young.

Blonde.

Handsome.

Words that, once strung together, formed a familiar picture in his mind. One of a saint wearing sins for skin.

If that was the case, then-

Blanca pushed onwards with a brisk pace. Shoved onlookers away that could not draw the touch back to him. He moved shadowlike, a husk in the heavy atmosphere.

In the middle of the library, light touched, lay a lonesome leopard. And as though he was being shown off in a zoo the people watched. If Blanca thought it over he would likely connect it to a circus show, but his mind was occupied with a drive to speak, pulse pumping until he hit his pressure point.

The words were calm and practiced, but buzzed, beelike. “Let me- that is my nephew!”  
Falling to his feet, it was only his eyes, hidden from view, that betrayed the careful act he had to show off so many times before. The skills crawled back into his being with ease, but even an assassin like him could feel his heart swell.

Soon, he felt a presence near him. The lonely cop, a young man not quite used to the sight of a dying boy, lay a hand on his shoulder for comfort. The squeeze that followed told Blanca all about the nervous energy that rattled the man's bones.

“I'm sorry, Sir, I-", he gulped. “The ambulance should...yeah. Be here any moment now...”

Blanca caught a look of Ash, perfectly still on his chair. He looked like a porcelain doll, pale and broken. At this point, if nothing was done soon-

“We ah, patched him up as best as we could. Stab wound. Pretty deep and-", a cough, then another squeeze to the shoulder. A bit harder, this time. “Sir, your name, his, uhm...”

Blanca blinked. This had to count, if his formerly denied plan had any hope of working. “Hemingway, like the author. This is Christian, my nephew...”

Steeling a voice that needed to be faint was hard, but manageable. It helped that his stoic facade was truly half shaken. “We were on vacation to visit relatives. He’s rebellious, I suppose all young men are, but I-"

Taking a breath felt like feeling fire. It was supposed to be this way.

“He is all that I have. My late brother will never forgive me should he-"

“Please Sir", attempted the cop, just as sirens skipped to life like a background noise, “help is here! Oh thank God...”

The crowd parted finally as the well known uniforms of men and women with the exact opposite of skills that Blanca possessed drew near. Like lions they scattered the herd, roaring orders in a way that made the man next to him seem like a cub instead of a cop. Young as he was, he flinched as one of the EMT's asked him for the basics while the other began checking Ash for any signs of life.

“Your colleague told us about the stab wound. Any additional information?” The woman talked business in a way that reminded Blanca of himself, but turned on its head.

The young cop stuttered a little, drew heavy breaths in-between talking as though someone had stabbed him instead. “Heavy bloodloss, ma'am. Ah, uhm, still alive because no vital organs were hit and...no personal belongings were found at the scene. This is Mister Hemingway, the victim's uncle.”

Blanca nodded, and the woman let a hint of sympathy flare in her eyes. “Smith is my name. We will take care of your nephew, Mister Hemingway. Stand by with officer Greenhorn outside.” A bit louder, she added, “That goes for everyone here.”

Turning pale, the cop, obviously not actually named Greenhorn, begun tugging at Blanca's jacket, who followed and soon took the lead of the two. It was the young man that had trouble keeping up and, once outside the hall, the two of them decided to stand a couple of feet away from the rest of the hawklike onlookers that still frequented the place as long as people let them.

Once out of earshot Blanca spoke up once more, now with an air of business around him that smelled like stale stories and money. “Alright...Greenhorn. If my nephew makes it...you will make sure that New York thinks he perished.”

If possible, ‘Greenhorn’ turned even more pale. A shade lighter and he would resemble Ash's sunken in look, just less handsome.

“Wha-"

“I’ll have you know I am a rich man. Important. People like me possess enemies and I am quite sure that Christian got tangled up in a problem meant for me.” Blanca's voice dropped an octave lower. “So you understand me when I say that to safely return home we must ensure that the public will only know of a blonde, young man who perished from a stab wound. Is that clear?”

Now devoid of colour, the cop nodded akin to those tacky car puppies with their moving heads. “Of course, Sir, Mister Hemingway, Sir!”

A genuine smile, perhaps even more terrifying than the authority with which Blanca carried himself, set itself upon his lips like a mask he forgot to pull off. “Excellent. I shall step outside for a breath of fresh air.”

“Yes, of course. I will let you know if-"

“That would be much appreciated.”

Blanca left the stuffy atmosphere of old books and young pale bodies then, stepped into a cold day so chilly even the sun could only imitate warmth in that moment. Or maybe it was the dread setting in that sent his stone heart up a mountain only to let it roll down indefinitely. He was suspended in the unknown, breath a tad more shallow than professionalism would allow.

He should start looking for a payphone, but then again he had no concise news to tell his informant. For now, waiting was all he could do. He had forgotten how to pray, but maybe Ash Lynx had gambled so often with Death that the reaper had taken a liking to him. Perhaps Blanca had offered so many corpses that it was yet too busy hunting other souls to catch a leopard.

For any grim thought that passed his mind, Blanca clung to a quote from Hemingway.

His brain was still full of them even as the medical team dragged Ash out of the building, gazes hard but eyes soft. When they called to him, both cops now in tow, he dragged his own body over as though handling a marionette, functioning like a well oiled machine. The sight was gruesome, a painting of pale blues that tinged the rosy skin a rotten white.

He wasn’t so much as a dead man walking like Blanca, but he sure looked the part. Strangely at ease though, wearing a smile that only seemed to turn sour the moment Blanca tried to fit it into his mental picture of the young man before him that was so weary of anything even resembling peace.  
Soon, only the beeping of the heart monitor let Blanca know that the leopard was not quite dead yet – or not anymore, as they began to tell him when the ambulance roared to life. His heart had given out and even now seemed to skip as though it was a record player, scratches etched into a body that should not be able to function anymore. Nothing was safe yet, still, Blanca tied a piece of his heart to the literal lifeline that echoed and echoed and echoed without growing distant.

And Eiji Okumura fell into his mind like a bird shot dead over sea. The kid was fragile and no matter the outcome, Ash Lynx would be gone. It reminded Blanca of the path that beasts had to take, and he sunk deeper into that place where thoughts could wonder.

_“Why did they make birds so delicate and fine as those sea swallows when the ocean can be so cruel?”_

 


	2. Being and Nothingness

**Chapter 2 - Being and Nothingness**

  
It was silent. The noisy kind that would drag sounds up from a bottomless pit, but brought no air to breathe. And so no words were spoken, even as the machines continuously build a cacophony of tunes. The atmosphere was thick with medication, all sorts of scents that all reeked like rubbing alcohol and half dried blood. Somewhere, the deceased stink of failing bodies mixed into the concoction. It tasted sick on the tongue, laid itself down and clung to even saliva. For some it would brew bile, but Blanca was used to the nauseating sensation.

That did nothing to quell the intense thirst for information in him however, a twisted kind of emotion which made him look towards faint blue lips all too often, as though they could whisper waves. Blanca felt shells ring in his ears, telling stories of red oceans and free flying birds. The sea would not answer though, not here, that place where the unbidden hands of humans playing God reigned.

Right now they were coming to manmade gates of heaven, the fake kind full of white wearing angels without wings. No feathers fell here, because their ability to soar had been cut away and traded for scissors instead. Blanca wasn’t quite sure if he felt jealousy towards doctors, yet the emotion was heavy and soaked in salt. Perhaps he had cried too much as a young man to give anymore tears the keys to a place called freedom.

The ambulance stopped and all was still. Now the thoughts that had hidden in his being were brutally murdered and professional stoicism took their place. He had to be a blank canvas now, had to hope for Ash to be given the same opportunity.

As the EMT's began to drag his body away Blanca followed close to their heels, gaze hard, frozen on the young man with the sun kissed, sunken in skin. The blaring of shouts and screams made it easier to focus, as no one gave him a second thought. Only after they had managed to get Ash into an emergency operation room did Blanca begin to exist again. The moment had been a blur and he was thankful for the false perception of time running out.

A minute turned to a moment and seconds became stretched.

He did not dare look at the clock.

But the silence returned, and that made every grain of a second seem more valuable than ever. “He will make it, of course?”

He said it to no one in particular, recognised only by the ruffling of fabric that he was not quite alone. It wondered him how he had not noticed the sterile and sickly sweet air to his right side.

Smith, the woman with the concrete voice, gave a soft sigh. “The docs will do their best.”

She huffed once, before adding another sentence. “Christian, huh? You should pray, then. Heard God keeps favours, sometimes.”

“I take it you have seen such favours before", he replied, breath even.

“Not often", she murmured, “...I pray, anyway.”  
With a clasp to his shoulder she went away, feet dragging across the ground as though cast in stone. She turned around, once, let her mouth hang open for a moment too long to appear unfazed. “You should inform your relatives, Mister Hemingway. Tell them to pray, too.”

Blanca was thankful for the offer, if only because he could now inform his way out of here with the change of plans. This was working out better than he had anticipated, and the puppy dog of a cop had to be talked to as well, anyhow. Coaxing the information of where the payphone was out of the lady was easy enough, and Blanca was pleasantly surprised to find the hallway empty.

First was the cop, who took up the call by the third ring. “Hemingway, here. They are operating now. I take it you understand the situation.”

“Ah, Sir is he...okay, Sir?” It stung a bit that a newbie like this stranger had an easier time showing genuine concern for a boy he did not even know than Blanca did for a child he helped groom into a beast.

“Anything can happen. Still...do your part, I do mine and with luck my nephew will leave New York alive.” That much was the truth, at least. Half lies always tasted better. Next to the foul ones they smelled pleasantly, sterile but clean, akin to the kind parts of hospital wards.

The other end of the line became silent for a while. “Time of Death?”

A morbid question that opened old wounds and clawed guts out. All to taste the raw hope of a man being rewritten with clean sheets of paper. All so the old tears and stains of blood would never be found in his book again.

Blanca, first filled with carefully nurtured nonchalance, felt the tiniest of shudders wreck his body as a nurse appeared at the edge of the corridor, clutching the place where her heart should be and puffing her cheeks as though the air could be trapped there. Then she coughed, and huffed, and breathed.

“Mister Hemingway! He- you need to-!”  
Blanca raised a hand, silencing the woman immediately. Then he turned back to the phone, uttered a single sentence and hung up. It was time to brace himself.

“ _Right now_ seems just fine.”

_~*~_

Morning dawned with dew so chilly it might freeze at any moment. The humid air fell into the prison cell like an escape artist, making bones shudder under the cold embrace. It was eerie there, the haunting kind and so the inmate clutched his shoulders while the scent of coffee fled through the air. Cruel, to keep him in his shoddy clothes while the cop strangled warmth in the form of a mug in his hands. Or not, since the given blanket lay forgotten on the ground out of pride.

“Oi, Charlie, lemme out already!” Teeth pressed against each other as though a fight was about to break out. A stark white against dark skin. Just like the contrast of the cup and liquid.

The click-clack would drive him mad one day. “You already know that your boss will bail you out today. Why did you go to the public library in the first place?”

“What, ya tellin' me a gangster like me can't read", came the muffled reply. “That colleague of your’s can't even not say my name properly, dude.”

Charlie took a sip from his morning coffee, dreading the fact that it failed at driving his headache out. The silly thing nagged at him, made him miss breakfast. And the whole day still lay before him. “I just got the basics. Someone saw you snooping at a crime scene, and we had you in for blunt force trauma a while ago.”

“Yadda, yadda", yipped the young man behind bars. “You think I leave a white boy alone that spits on my own bro’s grave? Harlem Chicken deserves more than that, dude.”

A sigh, then Charlie hid behind his coffee. “That’s terrible but not a reason to almost kill a man, Peacock.”

“Whatever", spat the young man. “I ain’t done nothin'. Black Sabbath got none to do with whatever.”

Charlie let his shoulders sag. Maybe this day would taste better if he downed the cup in one go. So he let his lips touch the awakening concoction, gritted his teeth as flakes of the cheap ground up powder slid down his throat. No, tasted terrible, anyhow.

“I believe you in this case. But the rules are the rules. Until your leader gets here you’ll stay.” Not having any warmth left to cling to, Charlie set the mug down and turned his chair. “I hope you cooperate this time.”

Peacock nodded half heartedly, then pointedly extinguished whatever kind of discussion could follow by picking up the blanket and throwing it over his head. A bit childish, thought Charlie. Least the boy could do was face his charges head on, but he knew the gripping filth of New York and was aware of the sticky hands that grabbed young youth like tar.

This case was not unique. He had seen many a young man fall to this sort of lifestyle. It still nagged at the edges of his heart how short such a life could be. Nadia knew first hand what it meant to lose family to it and he, by extension, took in the grief that she offered like a sponge. But he did not like to dwell on such things during work, and thus buried himself with the newest case.

Lao Yen Tai had been shot yesterday, then died through exsanguination. The murder weapon? A gun with fingerprints belonging to Ash Lynx on it. He knew that detail would throw half the police force into frightened despair, as most thought him yet dead.

Those that did not bother to follow up on the news, anyway, and that was a group much bigger than he liked to admit.

Charlie did not know what happened to the blonde troublemaker however. Beyond word of a second victim that got stabbed, little else seemed to be certain at this point. They weren't even completely sure if Ash had been the shooter yet, considering the state of valuable information being nowhere to be found. Maybe he should-

“Yo.” Broad strokes brought an even broader frame into the room. The ruffled feathers of the peacock in the cell perked up and soon the criminal thug rattled against the bars, blanket clinging to him awkwardly. “Cain Blood. Got a white vest right now, feel free to check. Came to pick up one of my boys.”

“Ah, certainly-", Charlie started, knocking his mug over the moment he stood up from the desk. Black sludge begun to ooze out, now half cold and only vaguely coffee like. He righted his mistake, but the damage had been done already.

“Hah...you brought the bail money, yes?”

Cain chuckled, an edge to the sound and his gaze unreadable behind dark glasses. “’course I did.”

“He can go, then. Do you happen to know about yesterday's incident?” It was worth a shot, he thought. Hopefully Ash had not come to the same wired conclusion.

A snarl was brought to Charlie's ears. “Not more than the cops, no.” Cain crossed his arms in defense, yet for him even that action looked like a threat posture.

The act of being handed the money felt like a transaction that the Devil watched over, yet Cain behaved as good as a well trained dog. Counting the cash was easy and the bills were clean, though Charlie doubted acquiring the money was as much of a clean act. Nevertheless he had the bail and the kid could go, so he opened the cell with practiced hands.

“I expect him to turn up to court when the time comes.” It was a statement, though one that seemingly died during birth.

“Sure you do", smirked Cain. “C'mon Pea, we're outta here.”

A brutish hand grasped the hoodie of the young gangster and then Cain set a brisk pace, offering no other word towards the cop with the growing headache. He deliberately ignored his gang member's protests and dragged him with him until they had left the police station.

The chill air was still frostbitten, but it was not Cain who shuddered. New York’s people of light woke up, tinting the world in colours other than murky brown and slick red. Walking among them would never feel quite right, so the two stuck to the shadows. There, home was closer, the stares fainter, the light not as blinding.

“Why", began Cain. “The hell you're looking for at a library? You get porn mags from back alleys an' I’ve never even seen you read the articles in _those_.”

His subordinate rubbed his temples. “That Chinese kid, Lao. Got shot. Baam! And it ain’t been me that did, but the cops don’t care nothin, so I went outta there.”

“ _Into_ the library?” Cain raised an eyebrow, arms bracing each other.

“Many people there. I got something, too. Hid it before the cops got me.” Peacock shrugged. “Guess books are good for somethin'.”

“Show me.”

_~*~_

The letter in Cain's hands was wrinkled, a wretched wonder of the worrisome kind. He held it with as much fragility as his crushing fingers would allow, hidden gaze focused on all the liquids a page could absorb. There was ink, intrinsically tied to the paper. There were tears, threatening the form of words. There was blood, blinding passages as though it meant to erase them.

“What’s this", he muttered, voice caught between a question and statement.

“Hell if I know", spat Peacock. “Ya know better than I do that I can't read for shit, boss.”

Cain started skimming over the pages, taking in words, fractures of sentences and fragments of lyrics. It felt indescribably shameful to do so, as though he had tripped into a lair that was never his to see. It was made for just a single leopard. This was something that did not belong to the world, and such thoughts gripped Cain's face and marred his expression. Curiosity died to make room for surprise, and then that carcass was ravished by worry instead.

“You seen the second victim?”

“Nah", mumbled Peacock. “Was a freakshow in there. Saw the letter under a table, snatched it.”

Cain searched for words, found none laying under his tongue. So he improvised, a bit less bite than usual. “...’kay. Tell the boys I won’t be home tonight.”

Folding the letter as carefully as possible he let it rest easily in his hand. Perhaps he should tuck it away, but it felt safer between his fingers and weighed seemingly a ton.

“Eh?”

He had already started walking, big steps, those that would leave footprints if it weren't for the New York asphalt. The atmosphere in front of the public library had calmed, full of the thirst for stories once more. Cain's lips felt dry. A bit further ahead only the stain of unwashed red still called back to what transpired the day before. Inside, only the tacky tape and blood soaked wood.

For him, it was the uncertainty that pushed him forward. Away from the place of knowledge, and yet full of questions. If he reached Chinatown, perhaps some of them would be answered. With the tension of Lao's death looming overhead it was perhaps foolish to walk into that part of the city alone, yet Cain moved onwards still.

The cavity in his head that allowed for fear to fester pestered his thoughts. What if it was one of his boys that was responsible somehow, what if a new gang war started, what if Ash was-

Perhaps mercy was his lover for the day, because she dared to give him what he searched for along a path of fading blossoms. A scattered bouquet of flowers he did not know the name of laying on top of dried ink. In front, like an art enthusiast, the shortest leader he had ever seen.

“Sing", and the name was felt on his tongue. So he spat on the ground, felt the acid push past his lips.

The boy did not turn, head hung low and fists furiously lost. Fingernails pushed past skin, short of drawing blood. “Cain. Lao is-"

“Heard the news”, came the immediate reply. “Got what he bargained for but...I am sorry.”

Cain had to strain his ears to hear Sing’s answer. His voice swelled with anger and angst equally. “I had to...”

It took him a second to gather his wit. What was left of it, at least. “He was _so_ pale. And I thought...just wanted to hit ‘em, ya know? Almost did...”

To that, there was no right answer. So Cain let his gaze touch the ground, to the flower arrangement with broken stems and torn petals. It was a pity display, resembled plucked weed more than a gift to the passing at this point.

“I hate him!” Sing growled. A fresh droplet of red hit the ground, then tears. “And that was Ash's gun and Ash is nowhere to be found and Eiji will call but what can I say? My mother hit me and my gang hates me and I’m so _fucking_ tired of being worthless!”

A gulp, then Cain repositioned his glasses, clutched the letter for support. “You're not-"

“It’s _my_ fault, alright!?” He roared, felt like a tiger in a cage. “Cain, look at me-"

Sing’s complexion blanched like bleach and he wished he could drink the stuff. Gulp it all down in one go and kiss his stomach goodbye, that place where his heart now rested. His voice was high pitched, gave out as though he was but a fingernail scraping against a chalkboard.

“...who's letter is that?”

_“It is certain that we cannot escape anguish, for we are anguish.”_


	3. East of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going straight to Sadville City. Population: All the good boys.

**Chapter 3 - East of Eden**

  
The moon glistened over Izumo. A steady onlooker, accompanied by millions of eyes that all twinkled mischievously. Perhaps all of this had been on purpose, a plan set in motion to keep him looking straight at the daring light. A moth caught by the wonder of its own mortality, that’s what he was. Trapped to stare and steer his thoughts towards dawn, until it grabbed the city with its claws and tore the day wide open. 

Eiji wondered when Amaterasu would grant him the sun with all its warmth. As it was the night sniffed out all body heat that clung to the young man like a blanket, even though one such piece of cloth was wrapped around his legs. The chill air grasped at his neck, trying to coax him further towards the opened window. He wondered idly if he should pray to Tsukuyomi instead, wishing for a soft night instead of a hard day. But perhaps that would anger the God, and so he hung his head instead.

He had incense to keep him company, left there to fill the lack of a burning scent that stuck like cinder to him back in New York, but had now been replaced with the earthy embrace of Japan. Smelling something that would crumble to ash in time helped calm his nerves, even as the jetlag refused to grant him exhaustion. The room was filled with flowery finishes, a gift from his mother to drive away the sterile husk that clung in the air from underuse. So he was thankful for the smokescreen that attempted to shield him from mindless musings, even though it did not work.

His skin lacked the sickly sweetness of ointment now and at least that was something he was grateful for. There was only so much sickness that one could gulp down on a daily basis, trying to get better in the place where the ill ones went. Sitting in a wheelchair felt less like a boundary when he was enjoying a view he had once carved to memory, but which got overshadowed by blonde tousled strands catching moonlight.

The city had never seemed as grand as the flame that burned in Ash's eyes whenever he tried to catch one of those elusive shooting stars with his gaze. The sad truth was that only one half of that word had let the Lynx hold onto it. 

So bullets bit instead, the aftermath of which ran through Eiji bittercold. He shivered, grounded himself in the faint way his life was illuminated by the light – a couple suitcases and trunks that kept over two years of experiences safely protected. A time capsule, forever stuck in New York until he was ready to move forward. He had been too weak to unpack them, crashed straight into bed and felt glad that the objects could hold onto the scent of absinth and asphalt a whole day longer than him. The faintest thread that yet connected him to that place half a world apart was worth all the strain on his body.

He only wished for the dawn to come soon, eyes wide awake even as this side of the planet was asleep. There were fourteen hours that separated Izumo from New York and when he had first learned about that fact years ago he had taken it in like a giddy time traveller. Because he would travel to the past, live a day that was almost twice as long as any other. Now someone had taken a piece of his future away and that made him feel old, somehow. Back yonder the day was only just rising, while his had settled and dared to reach towards the next step on the calendar. Eiji thought that could wait, as he childishly feared the passage of time. Yet he still dared the moon to move, to sink, deep below the horizon so that Amaterasu would greet a warm welcome. 

They had Gods for everything. Maybe one could tell her to hurry up. 

Taking in the crisp air with even breaths let his mind wander for a moment. What was New York like, right now? Did it rain? Was the atmosphere as chilly as in Izumo? He imagined Max and his protective stupor, asked himself how long it might take for the man to cave to his fatherly ways and call him up. He thought about Sing and his irrevocable willpower, wondered what would change in Chinatown. He yearned for Ash, wanting for an answer in the form of a well used flight.

Did they make Gods for air plane tickets? Eiji hoped so, then that God could tease until Ash decided to fly over just so Japanese mythology would let him sleep in until way beyond noon. That would show him to take Japanese culture seriously. 

Not that he hadn't. But Ash was a free spirit through and through, what if he could not let himself get bound to a country for a single person? How egotistical was he, thinking that his friend would trade everything for him. Clean starts tasted sweeter if the concept came with kisses, if it wasn’t marred by strings of sinew. 

“Hey Ash", Eiji breathed out, the scent of the incense in, “if you come here, I’ll show you everything. And if you don’t want to stay, I'll follow.”

He felt like he was telling the world a secret, and he was, wasn’t he? Used English to let the Gods know this wasn’t for their ears, only for the wind which wailed in unison with his whirlwind thoughts. Here, the stars were still brighter, spied on him, yet at least they would not tell humanity of his melancholy. They understood everything, spoke nothing.

Eiji closed the window and sighed, clutched at the place where his heart was with strength. How compassion could be a weakness was still an enigma to him. It wasn’t that he had problems acknowledging his inferiority when it came to making the tough decisions, yet he prided himself in the smiles that he coaxed out of a boy who had forgotten to be a child. 

One could reclaim their past with time, he thought.

The telephone rang. A stark contrast to the blinded silence in the dark, bright and loud and eager to roar. Eiji felt the anticipation ebb through him, flow to his legs, down his knees, into his toes. It took root there, let unfiltered fear settle and fleeting freedom fly. The pain was gone, even as his head pounded and bones rattled. A ribcage full of surprises, with guts to punch and draw ink out of. 

He would be able to write a letter with the way his heart pumped as he raced against the ringing, plucked chords of his soul free as his fingers found the cords of the old device. Twisting them with one hand, he put the speaker to his ear with the other, breath shallow as though stuck on a mountain.

“Ash!?”

_~*~_

The sound clung thin to his head, shook him with the effort of a thousand swallows. So Sing swallowed the shame inside, claws clinging to the pages in his hands that pressed blood against his skin. His fingertips were wet from tears, mind asunder in the prison of the singing sun. 

Cain had explained everything and it had brought him nothing but a headache on top of an already aching heart. Lao had been shot with Ash's gun, the letter written by Eiji was stained with tears and blood, most likely Ash's. Ash was nowhere to be found. The questions hailed a storm, dipped his soul in ice. It let the demon of despair grow in him, that being which whispered atrocities in his ears as if he was laying his sins down for the taking. Even Eiji's voice, crisp but not clean through the static could not wash away the wrath that tore him open.

Sing felt naked in front of the phone, rubbed his thumb over words that weren’t written for him, but he had experienced anyhow. A perfect story narrowed down to one letter, with an ending so haunting it could bleed the pages dry. Sing’s blood boiled.

“It’s Sing”, he muttered, teeth clanking against another and grinding his composure to dust. He could feel Eiji breathing in, as it sent a shiver down his spine. The kind that would stay there and cause back pain, not afraid of turning his flesh inside out. The feeling of fear was raw, a freshly healed wound reopened.

Sing hunched over, leaning against the payphone, ready to kiss his puberty strained voice goodbye. “How are you?”

The line was silent, for a while. He let his eyes roam over the street, finding hold in Cain's steady position, the exact opposite of his own tiny frame. He felt miniscule, yet protected, stuck between being a boy and a man. Maybe he would be more confident in himself if his own shadow wasn't swallowing him whole. Perhaps even Chinatown was just an edge of the universe ready to cut him up.

“I’m alright", came the muffled reply. Eiji sounded awake but asleep, voice a singsong lilt of caution. “Ibe-san made sure that I get home safe. I've slept longer than Ash ever did, the jetlag got to me. Now it's late and I can't sleep.”

Sing laughed and the fake energy it radiated coloured his cheeks red in embarrassment. Cain raised an eyebrow. He clutched the letter tighter at that, afraid of the wrinkles he would leave. “That’s because you're tickin’ differently now.”

If only his own heart could pound with the rhythm of that throbbing headache of his. “You’ve left an impact on New Yo-"

He stopped once he heard Eiji mutter faintly in the background, well trained English switched to a much humbler sounding Japanese. Then more voices mixed into the telephone call and Sing shrugged when Cain raised his eyebrow even _higher_. Considering the time difference, Sing had probably chosen the worst time possible to call up Eiji.

It was for a reason though. One he tiptoed around like a toddler. They didn't even know what happened to Ash yet, connected dots with unattached strings and hoped that the police was dumb enough to leave breadcrumbs behind. He had nothing definitive to tell, but keeping it all a secret felt like shooting Eiji in the head out of his own volition.

Sing heard uneven breathing and wondered if a gun was kinder than the bloodied pages he grasped like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry", whispered Eiji. “I woke my parents and they were...angry and afraid. But I explained and they understood.”

His laugh sounded a tad less cruel than the self deprecating one Sing had let out, yet it felt just as hollow. “I’ve got five minutes of whispering. You, ah, better make them count.”

“ _Sure_ ", sighed Sing, sounding anything but.

“Anythin’ you wanna know about?”

The response was immediate. “What about Ash?”

Sing felt his sins crawling up his back, until they rested were his neck was, weighing him down until his body curled even more into itself. “What about him?”

The switch in Eiji's tone was apparent even through the static. A mixture of genuine concern and crushing glee that Sing would have to snuff out like a recently lit candle.

“Has he decided on whether he’s visiting Japan yet?” 

“No.” He bit his tongue, felt the red wash over him like velvet. “Ah, not yet. I mean-"

“You do not have to lie, Sing.” Eiji's voice was soft. If Sing had to compare it to something, it was probably natto. Sticky, but fermented. He wasn’t sure if he liked such a tone, the way each word stuck to his ears and made his stomach coil.

“I’m not!” A bit too loud, too aggressive. If he kept this temper up he'd get chewed out by Cain. “Sorry... I haven’t talked to him yet, you know?”

He could breathe in, knowing that that, at least, was the truth. The sigh that followed after felt freeing, hearing Eiji sigh on the other end of the line brought his wings back to earth however. Eiji could fly. Ash could roar. Why couldn't he even take hold of a letter with conviction?

“Oh. Please tell him that I am not forcing him, okay? Would you do that for me, Sing?” 

The pleading undertone, that ache was too much. Sing imagined his soul running to the next rivalling gang to gun it down, imagined himself getting shot and cut and torn until only bloody spirals remained. No matter, now. Tears leaked anyhow. “O-of course! Eiji, I...I...”

“You sound...sad. If something is bothering you...”, the pause that Eiji granted himself was humble, just like the young man himself, “then you can tell me, alright?”

Temper, temper. Eiji let the air breathe for him, voice steeled and heart stuffed. Sing admired that about him, the compassion that he handed out like free candy, a fruit ripe for the taking. No wonder Ash admired him so.

“We’re _friends_ , after all.”

One sentence and Sing broke his back and collapsed like a mannequin, strings pulling him to whatever force could rival Hell itself. Maybe that’s where Ash had gone – into the fire to fight the frame society had put him in. But Sing hung like a crooked drawing whose artist had forgotten to let the paint dry. And akin to an outcast outlier, he lacked the talent to be presented in a museum. So he sobbed, like a son robbed from his soul. 

Cain watched helplessly, fists storing energy that could not let be out through a helping hand. There was a distance too great for him to cross, one that Eiji seemingly accomplished with ease from half a world away. If anyone should be given the keys to a kingdom, it would be him.

It did not help, but Sing let his form hug the pages that stored Eiji's heart inside of them. Those words created an ocean too vast for his young mind and already he could feel himself getting lost in it again. With eyes skimming the pages, his pulse became more erratic, pumped with adrenaline that made him imagine beasts in front of him. Sing was ready to pounce to his own demise. The phone dangled next to him like a noose, and he was ready to hang himself. 

So he spoke a truth that meant little compared to his omission. 

“Lao is dead.” 

_“There's more beauty in truth, even if it is dreadful beauty.”_


End file.
